


And I sang oh, what do I do?

by Pistol



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:58:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pistol/pseuds/Pistol
Summary: He lucky, they remind him each time as they seal him safely away from a world that gets stranger and more confusing each time he sees it. He is safe. He belongs here, where he is protected from the people and things who would do him harm.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	And I sang oh, what do I do?

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Subtextsays - All mistakes are mine, however. The good bits only exist because of Subtextsays.

If Cобака has a name, it, like his memories from before, are long forgotten.

What he does know is that he has a purpose. He has the skill and he has his knives - the only things besides himself that never changes when he goes to sleep and time marches on without him. He is luckier than most, to have these things. Not everyone has men who wake them when they're needed or men who give them purpose or men who send them back to sleep when their work is done.

He lucky, they remind him each time as they seal him safely away from a world that gets stranger and more confusing each time he sees it. He is safe. He belongs here, where he is protected from the people and things who would do him harm.

Cобака has met people like that. Men and women who objected to his purpose and who refused to let him do his work in peace. People who were not the face he was shown when he awoke but who had to die all the same for placing themselves in his path, in the path of his knives.

People like the swarm of agents in black uniforms that had delayed Cобака twice now on his way journey towards the man who is Cобака's purpose.

"Steve," the man rasps, "buddy, it's me." He reaches up, pulling back on his ludicrous cowl and showing Cобака the same face he'd been shown when he awoke.

Ста́рый друг - лу́чше но́вых двух, his handler had told the person on the phone before hanging up and handing Cобака the photo with a wary look.

He'd felt something then, something buried so deep he hadn't needed to bother hiding it from his handler's eyes. He feels an echo of that same stirring in his gut, stronger than before, as he takes in the sight of the man before him.

He's handsome without the cowl. A good fighter too, scrappy enough to have kept Cобака on his toes during their last fight. A man with the same disregard for time is as himself, if the birthdate on his file is true.

Cобака does not question his purpose and he does not pity this man, this James Buchanan Barnes, this Captain America, this Bucky, this man who has so many more names than Cобака. But… he does understand to some extent how confusing this world must be to live in. He's only been awake for a week and in the city less than four days, but he already feels like he's going mad. He's recognized bits of skylines he's never seen before, navigated neighborhoods he's never walked with uncanny ease, and stranger still he has found that English runs off his tongue like blood from his knives. This world is truly a terrifying place, more so than any other time he's been woken.

"It's me, it's Bucky," the Captain insists like that should mean something. "You gotta know who I am, pal, you just gotta because I've been trying my damnedest ever since these crazy fuckers put me in the defroster, but I gotta tell you, there really ain't much of a point in being Bucky unless there's a Steve, too."

Cобака watches the delusional man and discards his more expendable knives in favor of unsheathing the only things that make any real sense in this сумашедший world where men build robots around themselves, turn into huge green monsters, and call him Steve while they look at him like he's here to save them, not kill them. He threads his forefingers through the rear rings, hands falling easily in place as his stance rocks back and low. This is a familiar dance, one that he remembers well enough will end his work in this city of nightmares and whispering alleys.

"God," his purpose says, shoulders shaking with defeated laughter. He doesn't move to defend himself, doesn't move at all except for the slump in his shoulders and the way he shakes his head, "You have no idea who I am, do you Steve?"

"Sorry, pal, but I'm not Steve."

**Author's Note:**

> Was previously posted, then taken down. Now it's back up. Beware the errors and typos, I suspect the files I found on my old hard drive are the pre-beta versions.  
Please don't steal any of my silly stories and change some names around and then try to sell them as books on Amazon or I'm gonna have to take everything down again.


End file.
